


When the world is on your shoulder

by Mahoroba



Series: Avengers For Dinner [5]
Category: Avengers AU - Fandom, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Awkward Friendship, Backstory, F/F, Love Triangle, girl talk, relationships are hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-07-27 10:51:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7615144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mahoroba/pseuds/Mahoroba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I did not expect to see you here.” She was toweling off her thick hair, sitting nonchalantly on one of the wooden benches. “Did you enjoy yourself?”</p><p>In which you meet Natasha Romanova in the most unlikely of places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You can shout out all you want to

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're at an impasse with Steve and Clint - Steve's shown interest, Clint is being Clint. And when things couldn't get any more nerve-wracking, here comes Natasha...

_If They Say -_  
_Why, Why, Tell 'Em That Is Human Nature_  
_Why, Why, Does He Do Me That Way_

You mouthed the words silently, letting the music wash over you. Sometimes you still had moments of awe when it came to listening to _Thriller_ – so many incredible songs from one album. Insane.

And if it wasn’t for the music, it’d be a hell of a lot more awkward – for Natasha Romanova shared the Uber ride with you. She sat behind the driver, her green eyes focused on her reflection in the window. You drummed your fingers lightly against your thighs in time to the music, your backpack at your feet. 

How did this even happen?

Well, it seemed an odd series of coincidences – you’d saved enough money to splurge on yourself a bit, so you decided to give the Russian baths in town a shot. Clint had been the one to recommend them (and how he knew about them had been a mystery, until just a few minutes ago where everything clicked with an _Ohhhhhhh)_ , and you figured, why not? The only time you ever got a massage was when Remy was feeling particularly charitable, and even then, the man was physically incapable of a non-sensual massage, which usually left you more flustered than you were before. Clint had offered, but he’d instantly pressed down with the force of a drunk elephant on your shoulders and that was enough of that. 

The Professor had asked for you to bring a few documents over to the Tower, and you figured, hey, why not, make a day of it. Truth be told, after the Potluck fiasco, you were surprised that you were even welcome. From the way Clint told it (because he hadn’t stopped coming by. What he did do, which infuriated you, was act like that little mini drama bomb hadn’t happened), Tony DID have JARVIS recording everything, and when he noticed that new people that had never been there before entered, his interest was piqued enough to watch the footage. Since then, you’d gotten one text that made you dread your next Tower visit:

_Sugarbee and Baby Bird. The Bird and the Bee. I love it._

You were to be at the Tower for 1, so that gave you plenty of time to run a few errands in the morning. And to prepare yourself for the inevitable nightmare. So after breakfast, you headed out early to get to the baths.

To avoid constant, wheedling messages to bring food, (Clint could text like a 14 year old girl – you were pretty sure the only person faster on the phone keyboard was Jubilee) you had your phone turned off. Plus, you know, you were going to relax. And totally clear your mind of heavy thoughts. _Breathe, girl, breathe._

Since the toilet confession with Steve, you’d both been better about keeping in contact (though it was little more than small talk), but you hadn’t had the time to go by. Summer or not, you still had to work, and you picked up more hours by teaching your infamous dance class at the School. You’d always had an affinity for dancing, and it seemed to work wonders on kids who weren’t a fan of gym class. The Professor himself noted that it helped communication between people, so on certain days, you found yourself teaching the X-Men themselves. Not that all of them needed it - Kurt could ballroom dance like an angel, and more than once you ended up taking pointers from him. And you were secretly starting to adore Scott Summers and his earnest attempts to cha-cha.

After the baths, you could whip up a quick batch of cupcakes, and then head to the Tower, thereby not arriving entirely empty handed and still very much in the mode of _Sorry I projectile vomited all over your living room._ Whatever. 

Or at least that had been your plan, until a very familiar red-head approached you in the locker room.

“I did not expect to see you here.” She was toweling off her thick hair, sitting nonchalantly on one of the wooden benches. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

You paused, suddenly feeling very self-conscious in your underwear, hair plastered to the side of your face. 

But then you figured, well, hell, even the Black Widow was human. And the fact that she could kill you 60 different ways with that towel shouldn’t be daunting. You hung out with  people who could explode you with a thought. So, you know, it seemed a bit silly to be scared of her. At least on that whole, “She could totally murder you” angle. There were still plenty of reasons to be intimidated of her, though. Like, the whole weird tension between you and Clint and clearly her and Clint are something. And you never DID find out who that Kate was. This was a mess.

Her aura (and this was without the use of your powers, thank you very much) breathed _Ice Queen._ Cool, calm, collected, unflappable, with just a bit of something sinister there. 

“It was my first time here,” you sat down next to her, pulling on your jeans. “Best damn massage I’ve gotten in my life.”

“Who did you see?” She was running a comb through those tresses now, as unaffected as anything, still wrapped in a towel.

“Erm…I think she said her name was Vera.” Your masseur had been but a slip of a girl, a fresh-faced brunette with hands of steel. You’d originally thought she wouldn’t be capable of digging deep into the tense muscles of your neck and shoulders, but Vera quickly proved you wrong. In some places, you weren’t entirely convinced that you didn’t have bruises. But hell, they said _Hurt so good_ for a reason. 

“Vera’s good. Anya is better. Next time you are here, ask for Anya.” She looked over her shoulder at you, and her eyes were mysterious.

Of course they were.

It was quiet, save for the quiet murmur of Russian between the other women the locker room, the occasional flush of a toilet, or the running water of a shower. You stretched, feeling your muscles move like butter under the skin. “Oh, man,” you sighed, fighting the urge to lay down on the bench for a nap. “I totally needed that.” _Anything to avoid the elephant in this room._

Natasha made a non-committal sound, focused on her hair, her head tilted down to get the nape of her neck.

“The prices were reasonable, too. I even had enough to give the kinda tip I wanted to.” Reapplying your deodorant, you tugged on your shirt, and opted to keep your hair up for a little longer until the rest of you had time to sufficiently cool off. After the massage and the sauna, you’d taken an ice bath, but you still felt pretty warm. Truth: you were sweating like a sinner in church under Natasha’s placid gaze. 

Natasha was putting on her underwear now, and you snuck a quick peek at her bra. Whatever it was, it was lacy and gorgeous and absolutely hot. You gaped, your fingers itching to caress the delicate lace, when you noticed she was looking at you, a brow quirked in amusement.

Flushing, you spoke, “Oh, god, I didn’t mean to stare, but that bra is decadent. Where did you get it?”

Natasha didn’t “smile” as you would typically describe the expression. However, her eyes expressed amusement as she pulled on her shirt (wait the Black Widow wore normal clothes? You were pretty sure she was born in that catsuit) “Victoria’s Secret discount bin.”

“No way.”

“There is an outlet mall a little north of town. Sometimes I go, and get lucky with my finds.”

Okay, first of all, how did you not know about the outlet mall (Jubilee, I am disappoint), and second of all, did Natasha just admit to being cheap? Okay, maybe not _cheap_ , but frugal?

That…made her instantly awesome in your book. And was enough of a distraction to wave away the clouds of the whole Clint thing.

“I can’t believe I didn’t know about the outlet mall,” you were pulling on your tennis shoes. “I’m going to have to tell the girls at school about this once I get back.” Lacing them up, you slung your backpack with your towel and toiletries over your shoulder. “Thanks for the tip! Much  obliged,” and you gave her a smile, heading towards the door.

She nodded.

As you walked out of the locker room, you let out the breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. That had been one of the more taxing conversations you’d had in a while, and it was hard not to beat yourself up about it. You knew her and Clint were close, and you and her decidedly were not. Save for a couple of nods of acknowledgement as you came and went from the Tower, you hadn’t actually spoken to her. And now there was this whole **_Thing_** hanging over your shoulder. 

And what did you REALLY know about Natasha, anyway? A whole lot of nothing, other than she was a master assassin. Which…was pretty cool, if you didn’t think about her using those skills on you.

_Didn’t she smile at you when you brought the pie, though?_

_That was ages ago, though._

It felt silly to be so intimidated – you’d felt the same way around Jean and Ororo when you first started at the school, and look how that turned out. Jean was the classic girl next door, and Ororo was cool and calm because she **_had_** to be. Surely Natasha couldn’t be that bad? And this thing between you and Clint? Well, it’d take you sucking up your pride (and bending Southern Law about the potlucks; not breaking it), but if you had just a few minutes, you were sure you could get it all cleared up. No problem.

Okay. The next time you went to the Tower, (not this time, though), you were going to make a better effort to talk to her. 

Turning your phone back on (and ignoring the rapid fire buzzing of multiple text messages that were all from the same number _Clint good god almighty,_ you called for an Uber ride. Rather than go back inside, you opted to wait outside for the ride. It was a mild, sunny day, and even the noise of the city was at a dull roar. 

It wasn’t long before you felt someone standing beside you, and, looking over, your friendly smile wavered, stretched, and held. Natasha was standing next to you, her hair a dark flame against her pale skin. She had on a pair of killer aviators (where did this woman shop?), a light weight leather jacket (even in this heat!), skinny jeans, and black boots.

“Are you going to the Tower?” It was less of a question than a statement.

“Uh, yeah – I was going to go home first, though. Apparently I’m forbidden to go to the Tower without bringing food.”

There was that almost-smile of hers. “Nonsense to make a second trip. Come to the Tower; worry about baked goods later.”

She had a point. And you were not about to argue with her. Before the lull between you two could get officially awkward, the Uber driver pulled up. You nodded your head towards the car. “Looks like there’s room for two; wanna hitch a ride?”

And that was how you ended up sharing an Uber car with Natasha Romanova. 

The Uber driver was an older woman who was a jovial Michael Jackson fan. And by “jovial”, you meant “intense” – the King of Pop covered nearly every open surface of the interior of her car. She’d even had a Michael Jackson air freshener and prayer candle on her dash. Her license plate read “KNGPOP.” The car was black with white glittery highlights. You stood in awe at this mobile shrine, before opening your door and slipping in.

The ride had been largely quiet (the driver seemed to be able to read her passengers incredibly well, and though her face was open and friendly, you figured it’d be rude to start a conversation with her and leave Natasha out of the loop), with Michael Jackson playing in the background.

And then “P.Y.T.” came on. 

The minute those opening guitar twangs came on, your shoulders started to move. Then your neck. Then the rest of you. By the time the chorus came around, you were rocking the right the hell out, singing along. Even the Uber driver was in on it – and for a while, you thought it was just you and her jamming. 

Then you looked over. 

Natasha was bobbing her neck, lips pursed out, grooving right along. Before you could stop yourself, you lightly nudged her with your elbow, showing her that you were getting down as well. That half-smile came back, getting dangerously close to a full one, and as you held up an invisible microphone as you sang, you held it out to her for the chorus, and she belted out, 

“I WANT TO LOVE YOU, P.Y.T.”

The rest of the Uber ride dissolved into an impromptu dance session.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, hi there, ho there - 
> 
> I thought I'd leave a quick note to explain "my" Natasha: she's a combination of her comic and movie counterparts. As we don't really have Natasha's backstory in the movies, I'm going with her established Red Room set up from the comics - in which she's been around since the Cold War. I'm also going with "Romanova" instead of "Romanov" for her last name, as I believe "Romanov" is the spelling for a male's last name.


	2. Gotta straighten up your act and boogie down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> '“What is it that you do,” she repeated, calm as anything. That…had nothing to do with anything you were just talking about. “What is your mutant ability?”"
> 
> In which you explain your powers. At last. Sort of.

You tipped the Uber driver **way** more than you should have, but considering that the experience had brought you and Natasha to some common ground was priceless. As you and Natasha entered the Tower, there was quiet between the two of you, but rather than being heavy, it was light, rife with mutual understanding.

“…I saw him at Wimberly in 1988,” Natasha started, walking forward into the Tower’s living room. “I was on a mission, and had downtime. He was like magic.”

“I never got to; folks saw him as a kid. So they say.” Fishing in your backpack, you pulled out the envelop the Professor had given you, and carelessly chucked it on the coffee table in the living room. You were far more engaged with this Natasha, who, not only was apparently frugal, but took downtime to catch a concert. She was full of surprises (duh).

Your phone buzzed impatiently again, and you fished it out of your backpack. “Huh. I thought the Tower was a little quiet,” you muttered, looking at the screen. “According to Baby Bird, the guys got called away for some S.H.I.E.L.D. business. Do you need to go?”

Natasha fixed you with a cool green glance. “It’s my day off.” Her tone of voice made it clear that her day off was not up for debate. “ ‘Baby bird’ is what you call Clint, yes?”

You were surprised; you hadn’t told anyone outside of who was there that night that. Maybe Tony had spilled the beans?

“How did you know that?” You were automatically wandering to the kitchen. Since you’d came by to cook for Steve that night, Tony had kept it stocked with what he assumed were “southern” foods; you still had to have words with him about that one time you came over and there was a giant tin of lard on the counter. If you gave your hands something to do, maybe that would slow down the rapid drumbeat of your heart. “You eat?” It was a half-hearted question.

Natasha had settled herself on the bar, her gaze fixed on you. “A while ago. Why do you ask?” And….she didn’t tell you how she’d heard Clint’s nickname. Maybe she hadn’t heard you ask?

“It’s this thing I do.” You combed through the pantry like you owned the place. “And I haven’t eaten since breakfast and it’s getting to be about that time. If I make something, will you at least have a little?”

“Why do you always cook? Clint didn’t put you up to this, did he?”

“Naw; just how I was raised. Rude to eat when no one else is. Technically, it’s rude to come in and just take over someone’s kitchen like this, but I think Tony’s given me a lifetime go ahead. I still have a hard time with it, though.” Oh, that would be perfect – you pulled a box out of the pantry, and went to the freezer. Oh, even better. Talk about perfect. Beyond perfect.

You pulled a bag of shrimp out of the freezer, dumping the contents into a colander and started running cold water over them. Kneeling, you retrieved a big pot and a skillet from the drawers around the oven. Natasha watched you in silence.

Setting everything on the counter, you went back to the fridge to look for an onion. “Was it the concert that got you hooked?” Better to avoid the Clint thing - for now.

The faintest curl of surprise snaked across her face, before it relaxed into an honest to goodness smile. “Yes.”

“I’m totally envious that you got to see him live. I think I’d be liable to ugly cry and pass out.” Slicing the onions was always a pain in the ass, but worth it. “Speakin’ a’ ugly cryin,” and you looked up, blinking away the tears before you kept slicing the onion. Natasha was quiet again, watching you slice the onions, her face unreadable. 

The quiet got to be too much. “Natasha,” you blurted, “I have no idea what to say to you. I’m trying so hard to keep this conversation going so I don’t end up short-changing you, and I know you’re good friends with Clint, which makes you awesome in my book, and the fact that you shop at outlet malls and like Michael Jackson makes it even better, but where do I even start? How did you know what I call Clint? Did Tony tell you? What all exactly do you know about that night?”

You flushed. You hadn’t meant to blurt all of that out, but now the cat was out of the bag, and there wasn’t nothing for it.

Natasha folded her hands in front of her, looking down at the bar before looking at you. You longed to reach out with your powers, get a better idea (any idea) of what she was feeling, but you held back. You had to. Though you hadn’t been this sorely tempted in a good while. Ha. Maybe that’s why the Professor kept sending you here; as a way to test your control. 

“Clint was the one who told me,” she said, simply. “You learn more just by listening - and asking the right questions.” The hint of a sly smile crossed her face. “And I know everything that happened that night - from the howling in the woods to the vomit all over the couch. Tony was quite displeased that it had happened, but expressed his awe that it was cleaned up in such a timely manner.” She sat back on the stool, primly crossing her legs. “Clint told me about it as well. What he could remember. I gathered the rest from various sources.”

“Various sources” indeed. You weren’t going to touch that one. What did Tony or Bruce think of the whole affair? And where was Thor, anyway?

“…Does anyone else know?” you ventured, tossing the onions into a waiting pan. Garlic was next.

“Not that I am aware of. Clint has made some sort of deal with Tony to keep JARVIS’s footage from being shown all over the Tower.” It was possibly just your imagination, but Natasha sounded intrigued by what this deal was. “Clint has not told me what the nature of the deal is. So I am at a loss. For now.” 

Welp. That pretty much meant that only (potentially) Bruce and Thor hadn’t seen the down and dirty of what _actually_ happened. And even then, it was probably only a matter of time. You sighed. Might as well make light of it: “It must’ve looked pretty bad when you guys saw Clint and me the morning after.”

Natasha seemed to be hiding a smile behind a cough. “That is one way of putting it, yes.”

Braver now, you decided to spill. “Steve heroically followed me to the bathroom, and once I was pretty sure that my stomach was inside out, we got to talk about what happened. So there’s that.”

You tossed the onion and garlic together, watching the onion begin to soften. The garlic was becoming fragrant, and quick as a wink, you threw a couple of pinches of pepper, salt, paprika, some thyme, and other spices. You were cooking from memory, and your hands moved of their own accord. It would at least hide that you were two second away from fidgeting. The shrimp thawed, you added it to the pan, adding sliced bell pepper as well. 

Natasha steepled her fingers together; looked over them at you. 

“What is it that you do?”

You weren’t sure that she’d actually said anything over the sizzle of the pan, and you raised your eyebrows. “Do what?”

“What is it that you do,” she repeated, calm as anything. That…had nothing to do with anything you were just talking about. “What is your mutant ability?” 

“Don’t that beat all,” you murmured, before you could stop yourself. “I thought that it would have been in the paperwork that the Professor kept sending over. Well,” you took a deep breath, continuing to stir the contents of the pan, “it’s a little difficult to explain.” If she was going to change the subject, roll with it. 

Natasha raised her crimson brows ever so slightly. You got the distinct impression that nothing you could have possibly said (or shown her) could have surprised her. “Try me,” she added, placing her hands on the bar.

Well, that was that.

“I’m a kind of…” you waved your hands around, looking for the right word, “‘empath.’ I don’t feel other people’s emotions as so much as I can ‘see’ them in shades of color. Auras, sort of.” The shrimp was turning pink. Time for the grits. Turning the heat down on the pan, you started a pot of water to boil. “Everyone has a ‘base’ aura, or a base color.” How to explain this?

“Okay, have you seen marbled paper?”

She nodded.

“Okay, so people’s emotions come off of them like the colors in marbled paper. They’re always the ‘base’ color of the paper, but their emotions swirl off of them like the color on the paper.”

Natasha nodded sagely.

“So, I can not only ‘see’ those colors, but I can bring more to the surface, or diminish other ones. I also have the ability to ‘charm’ people,” and you couldn’t use enough sarcasm in that word, “and have pretty ridiculous charisma because of it. I can’t bring an emotion forward that doesn’t already exist in the person, and for some inexplicable reason, if I tell someone what I can do, it negates my ability to use my powers on them. So, for example, if I were to peek into your aura and try to make you, I dunno, really happy, it wouldn’t work. Oh, and ‘peeking’ - I have to use control not to constantly pick up on what people are feeling. Before I could master that…” you shuddered. “If I’m flustered or something, though, I can catch a snapshot of sorts. Just a quick flash of a read of someone, like how you see spots after you’ve been in a dark room and come outside.”

You licked your lips, kept talking: “In extreme cases, when I’m startled and I drop my shields, skin to skin contract can open up a feedback loop; I get caught up in their emotions and they get caught up in mine.” You hated when that happened. Actually, “hated” wasn’t a strong enough word. When it happened, you ceased being “you” - everything that you knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt to be who you were, got swept away in a maelstrom of color. The first time it’d happened at the school, it was only the Professor mentally guiding you back that you were able to get ahold of yourself. You weren’t sure if you were _you_ for a long time afterwards. 

It’d given you and Rogue one more thing to bond over.

“I can ‘project’ how I feel as well, if I’m not careful. It’s only a small radius; you have to be pretty close to get ‘caught up’. I can’t force a group of people to feel how I’m feeling - in theory, at least.” Adding the grits to the boiling water, you took a step back to avoid being popped by the hot grains. “Why do you ask?”

“I can see why you and Clint have become such good friends,” she murmured, at length, before fixing her gaze to yours. 

“Why do you say that?” You dodged as a hot grit popped, and leaning over, you turned the heat down a bit. Friends? So…that whole trying to kiss each other thing was out the window. Well. Just your luck. And that was good. Great and good. Steve, remember? Yup. Steve. Captain Golden Hair. “And who is Kate?”

“Clint..has a need to prove himself, his worth. As do you.” She choose her words carefully, looking down at her hands before catching your gaze again. “He has not had an easy time of it. But I would not be here if it were not for him.”

Whoa. That was totally a loaded statement to end a series of ambiguous statements, and though you itched like crazy to pry more into that, you focused your attention on the grits. It’d been about a month and a half since the Southern pot luck, and though you’d seen Clint a handful of times since then, your conversations were always set in the ‘present.’ He never went into his past, and the only time he made reference to the future always had to do with food - what he’d like to try, could you make this next? And he never mentioned your almost kiss(es?).You’d thought about bringing it up, but…yeah. You weren’t that brave. And you didn’t dare check his aura again. Everything could be explained by being hung over.

You figured that he and Natasha were close, simply because they seemed to always go on missions together and shared an “easy” camaraderie that you didn’t need to use your powers to sense, but to imagine anything more between the two of them was alien.

“So…what is it with you and Clint?” And you just barreled into that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I completely forgot to mention - chapter titles are from "Off the Wall" by Michael Jackson.


	3. If you can't hang with the feelin'

Natasha looked at you with a kind smile. You wondered if that meant she was amused or she was about to stab you.

“He is someone very precious to me. And, as I said, I would not be here were it not for him.”

You bit your bottom lip. Clint was probably drunk. Got carried away. You two were human - and adults. Shit happened. Right? And he had this thing with Natasha, and you still hadn’t forgotten Kate. Whoever she was. Who was probably someone awesome. Psst. She probably was some supermodel beauty. 

You were probably digging yourself into a deeper hole the more you pursued this line of questioning. But, being nosey as hell, you weren’t going to drop it.

Getting bowls, you spooned grits into them, topping them with the shrimp and sautéed veggies. Sitting next to her at the bar (how long ago had you sat here, next to Steve? Sigh), you gave her a wan smile. You set the smaller of the two bowls in front of her, and watched expectantly as she began to turn the grits over in her bowl. 

“Do you…like him him like him?” You could be nosey, but not **_too_** nosey **.**

Natasha actually laughed. Did this mean a stabbing was imminent? 

She studied the contents of the steaming bowl in front of her, and, so soft you could barely hear it, she sighed. “We have a bond.” Speaking a bit louder, her voice still had a smile in it. Guess that meant that she wasn’t going to stab you. “I thought I was not hungry, but smelling this has given me an appetite.” She took a small bite as you watched, eyes wide, waiting to see her reaction. She chewed thoughtfully, then closed her eyes for a moment. “What is this?” 

“Shrimp and grits,” you supplied, pausing with your spoon midway to your mouth. 

She chewed thoughtfully. “What is a ‘grit’?”

“I don’t actually know what grits really are, but some fancy places refer to it as ‘polenta.’” 

Light bulb moment.

“JARVIS, what exactly are grits?”

“Grits,” and you wished you had that recorded - hearing the stuffy voice say ‘grits’ was about enough to make you come undone with laughter, “is a southern dish that is made out of ground hominy or corn.” 

“Well, there you go. Thanks, JARVIS.” You looked back at Natasha. “Can you believe I’ve gone my entire natural life not knowing exactly what grits are? I mean, grits are grits. That’s all you need to know. There’s a total difference between grits and cream of wheat, though. Grits, though, you can do them as breakfast or a side or whatever.”

Natasha, spoon in mouth, gave you a slight nod. You beamed in response. She was eating. This was good.

++++++++++++++

The air between the two of you was calm as you ate. 

As you worked your way through your bowl, mind wandering, you came to the conclusion that Natasha was a listener (and in other breaking news, water was wet). A nonjudgmental listener, too. And you got the impression that this was actually a conversation with her because you didn’t get the sense that she was probing you for information (because you weren’t important enough, for one) - although, if you wanted to entertain those paranoid thoughts, that’s what made her such a good spy - 

Those thoughts dissolved under the logic of she let you ask her questions, too. And that stuff about Clint? That was personal. Like, you were legitimately surprised that she told you that much (it wasn’t much, but you figured that she said specifically what she did to allow you to read between the lines - i.e., her and Clint were potentially a thing but that was some time ago -maybe?- **_but_** they still really liked each other, _got it),_ because, yeah, wow. She’d been the first Avenger to actually “come clean” about anything in their life, or their past. You’d been so dazzled by Steve (and engrossed in teaching him about Motown) that you hadn’t thought to really ask about his past (but then again, ix-nay on asking about traumatic war memories), and Clint got you so caught up in his present-day patter that you never thought to ask more; you hadn’t felt the need to know more about him. 

Now, though?

Natasha had kicked the anthill, and a million questions swarmed in your mind. You were half-way tempted to grab a note pad to jot everything down.

“Why did you tell me about your powers, (Your name)? I do not get the impression that it is information that you would share lightly - considering their effectiveness is reliant on those not knowing.” She spoke succinctly, in a manner that you were rapidly becoming familiar with and less intimidated by. 

“Because you asked.” You shrugged. “I’m sure the Professor has told Tony, and in hanging out with Steve and Clint, it never came up.”

Her emerald eyes turned frigid as she took you apart with her gaze and calculated. “Does that not seem dishonest to you?” There was no threat implicit in her voice, but the sudden formality after your conversation bugged you.

“Not really?” you shrugged again. Her ice bothered you, but you didn’t feel like you were in the wrong. “I’m sure they know - and it’s not needed to be a ‘thing.’ I’d never use my powers on you guys. I mean…why would I? I’m not trying to get you to like me. No, wait, that wasn’t what I meant,” and you sighed.

“Okay, let me put it to you this way. Before I had the control, people gave me whatever I wanted because I was constantly influencing them without my being fully aware of it. I was just leaking, if that makes sense. When I first got to the school, it was…really hard for me to realize that people didn’t actually like me for me. I’d been working my entire life under the assumption that I was good. Nice. Whatever. Turns out apparently it was my powers all along.” You tried to stop the bitterness from slipping into your voice. “With the control I have now…I want people to like me for me.”

“Is the cooking a way to buy our affections?” The formality was gone, dropped to be replaced by the casualness that was starting to grow between you two. Taking her comment as the friendly jab that it was, you snorted.

“It isn’t. Seriously, this is how I was raised. And I do love to cook. And Tony’s kitchen is the best of the school’s kitchen and my kitchen at home. I get twice as many toys to play with here, and I don't have to buy my own groceries. As long as I leave something behind.” You were putting the remainder food up in tupperwares - one for Tony, one for Clint that you stashed away in his ‘secret spot’ in the fridge, one for Steve, and, just to be cautious, one for for Natasha. You held hers out in your hands. “This one is going to be yours; I’m putting it on the top shelf in the fridge.”

“Thank you, (Your name). I will be sure that Baby Bird does not get to it.”

Did she just use the nickname you gave Clint?

Oh, she did.

And she was smiling about it. 

Progress.

“Now, (Your name), I have something to show you.”

Well, that was a completely random segue way. But you weren’t about to say no. Even if it did mean you were walking to your death.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly but surely. Work has me swamped, and I haven't had much time to work on this. My apologies for the bitty chapter. It's still going somewhere, promise!


	4. Life ain't so bad at all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Girl. You’re killing me. You can’t tell me you, Miss Grace Incarnate, do not know how to Moonwalker.” 
> 
> In which you and Natasha bond not over food, but over dance.

Standing in the Avengers Gym, you couldn’t help but to let out a low whistle. It was like a gym dance studio on steroids (HA) - wooden floor and wall length mirrors on one side, weights, machines, and a punching bag on the other side. The sides were neatly divided by the floor - hardwood on the “studio” side, foam core on the “gym” side. Essentially, the benefits of having a world class gym all to yourself. You could practically feel yourself salivating when you looked at the studio side of the gym. God, what would it be like to dance in here? With that sound system? Ooooohhhh; that was the stuff dreams were made out of.

She surveyed the space, her hands on her hips. Then she turned to you. 

“Let’s see you dance.”

“Do what now?” You were stunned. You squinted at her. Could she read minds?

“What kind of dance are you most proficient in?” Her facial expression hadn’t changed, though you were sure that your mouth was hanging wide open. How could she know that? Before you could stammer a response, she filled the gap.

“Three reasons. One: the way you walk - your posture is too rigid to be untrained. Two: I know dancers when I see them.  Three: I know my way around Facebook.”

_Well, duh._

If Tony could find you, so could Natasha. 

You chuckled to yourself, embarrassed by being so paranoid. It really was funny - dancing and cooking were the two things you were known for at the school. It just went to show you how little the Avengers actually knew you. It pricked, just a little, at your chest. Did Clint even know? What about Steve? You’d spent so much time blindly chasing after both men (somewhat) that it only became apparent to you now that you didn’t know anything about them as people.

_Brilliant._

“Modern in particular. I took ballet years and years ago, but couldn’t take what it was doing to my feet. So now I stick to whatever pays the bills and the kids want to learn at school.” Instinctively, you began to study your reflection in the mirror; raised your arms over your head in a causal stretch. That massage had worked wonders; everything felt like new. 

“Let’s see what you can do. JARVIS, ‘Off the Wall’.” 

The somewhat eerie chords of the song started, and she nodded at you. It was difficult to find your groove at first, under her scrutiny, but the smoothness of the song soon eased your worries. Closing your eyes, you started with a smooth shoulder roll. Your body responded with the slightest push, and before you knew it, you were moving across the floor, your body begging for more. 

“Why did you start dancing?” Her voice wove into the song, and, for a moment, you paused in your movements, considering. Tell the ugly truth, or a pretty lie? Natasha had been honest with you. You needed to be honest with her. Taking a deep breath, you slowed your movements, then came to a stop. Looking at your reflection in the mirror, you smiled.

“It was the only thing I had. Only way to work through my powers before what I knew what they were. Same thing with cooking. They were the only avenues in which I had absolute control. When I…” You stopped. You hated going back into your past, but she deserved to know. “Before I knew what I was….I did a lot of stupid things to try and numb what I was constantly getting from other people. Once, I walked around with a blindfold. I thought that if I was blind, I wouldn’t be able to see other people’s auras. Doesn’t quite work out like that. As I got older, I started to develop natural shielding, but I didn’t have control. I didn’t know what was what. Who liked me. Who hated me. How I actually felt about anything. My foster parents had enough and just dropped me off at Xavier’s. Good luck within bad,” and you stretched, hoping to break the awkwardness that you felt - really, more on your end. Natasha’s face hadn’t changed.

“You could have left, after you had control,” she said, softly.

“Yeah, I know.” You took a deep breath, let it out. Your body whined at you, the music still going, and you began to rhythmically rock, still keeping your attention on the thread of conversation. You had to keep going, but you couldn’t keep still, either. Michael had that effect on you.

 “My foster parents dropped me off when I was underage. Charles essentially adopted me until I was old enough to be emancipated. He didn’t have to do that.” You looked at Natasha straight away now. The man, that school, it meant the whole world to you. “I stick around because I want to repay him, just a bit, of what he’s given me. I want to be able to do the same for the kids that come in like I did - nowhere else to go and without the slightest clue what was happenin’ to them or their bodies. I thought that maybe one day I could be an X-Man. Out there on the front lines, fighting to make his dream come true. Instead, I teach dance, sub the occasional class, and get caught up in self loathing.”

_Holy shit I just told a complete stranger my entire life how much more fucking Southern does it get._

“…You did not let yourself go to the music.” She paced closer to you now. “Why?”

You flushed; she was right. As much as the music had moved you, was moving you, you’d kept yourself from really “living off the wall,” as the song went. Stopping in your steps (but keeping your shoulders going), you spoke.

“You know how I said that thing about skin to skin contact? There’s that. But I can also lose control when I lose myself. I get to dancin’ too hard, really feelin’ the music, and it affects everyone around me, like a tidal wave. So I don’t really cut loose unless I’m on my own.”

“But you told me what your powers are - and that negates them. So, I am going to put on another song, and I want you to dance like no one else is here.”

There was no fighting with the look she gave you, and you nodded, dumbly. The new jack swing of “Jam” started, and this time, you let yourself go. Mimicking the dance moves you were so entranced by as a child, you were startled when Natasha slipped behind you, and corrected a hand gesture into a punch. You paused, but she motioned for you to keep going. A low squat, she turned into a leg sweep. A full body roll, she turned into an evasion of an oncoming attack. 

“Natasha,” you asked, after the second ‘correction’ from hand wave to block, “What are you doing?”

“Teaching you basic self defense. Fighting is not so different from dancing.” 

_Well, I’ll be dammned._

“Why?” Despite the rapid fire pace of your movements, she kept up with you, no, she was a step in front of you, correcting from dance to fighting. 

“Why not?” Came her response, as simple as anything. 

For three more songs, she worked with you, until you were panting and sweat ran into your eyes. Finally, you could take no more.

“I yield, I yield,” you said, laughing breathlessly, as you sat down heavily. “I could totally get used to this studio, though. Think Tony would mind if I borrow it from time to time? Sort of hard to get any dance time to myself at school, and my apartment, well, ain’t gonna happen anytime soon.” You gave up the ghost, and finally laid down on the floor, arm draped over your eyes. 

Natasha wasn’t winded in the slightest. Because of course she wasn’t. The tap of her shoes were a faint counter to the beat of the music, and you could sense she was standing over you, before she sat down next to you. Out of respect, you moved your arm from your eyes.

“Natasha, thank you. I dunno if this is gonna make me an X-Man…I thought I’d come to peace with not being one, but when I first met all of you guys, God, Tony just…found that weak spot and slammed the knife in and twisted it. All of that control. All of that time I spent explaining to myself that I had my place, that..” You stopped, realizing you were rambling. “I’m sorry.”

She smiled at you. There was so much quiet warmth in it that you couldn’t help but to return the gesture.

“Nothing to apologize for,” she said, and leaned back against the mirror next to you. “But you know, “Steve likes you,” she said. Your breath caught in your throat, and you instantly sat up, feeling your cheeks heat up. Her tone had changed - but now you were able to recognize it. Natasha wasn’t being cold. She was being protective. 

Internally squealing, you resisted the urge to sweep her up in a big bear hug and exclaim how sweet she was about worrying about her boys, because, hell, how many times had you done that over your own crew at the mansion? Her voice brought you back from your internal screeching.

“As does Clint. Which is why I asked about your powers. It seemed uncanny that both would seem to ‘like you like you’ after such a short amount of time, yes?” Her question wasn’t cruel, but it was probing. You felt that you couldn’t lie to her. With the way she put it, it didn’t make a lot of sense. But at least Steve had explained _why_ he liked you.

“I see your point. But if I’d hit them with my powers, even unconsciously…they’d be like zombies. Steve told me why he liked me, unprovoked.” You sat up, ran a hand through your sweaty hair. “That’s kind of a big deal. The thing about my powers is that if I hit someone with them, that one emotion I was drawing out trumps all others. It doesn’t leave you with the most articulate person. Clint….Clint I dunno. He comes by to eat and talk. I didn’t think he felt anything until that night,” you sighed. “Then the next morning I just figured it was the last of the booze talking and then you guys walked in and that was that.”

“ _In vino veritas:_ there is truth in wine.’ Clint is not the bravest man when it comes to his emotions. Neither would you seem to be. You are torn - you like Steve, but you also like Clint.”

“..Is it that obvious?”

“To one that knows how to look,” her voice was gentle. “That day has put everyone in a mood. Steve is quiet, but happy; Clint overcompensates by ignoring. You have been avoiding us.” She opened an eye. “You should figure out who your affections lie with.”

“I suppose it can’t be Clint,” you unfolded your legs, stretched them in front of you. “He has Kate, supermodel girlfriend and totally not a smoking tire fire of a mess woman.”

Natasha actually laughed. _Again_.

“Kate? Kate is also a Hawkeye.”

“What? Another Hawkeye?” Things were starting to click. “Oh, wait a minute…Dark hair, wears a lot of purple?” You thought back. You’d occasionally seen a girl that matched that description on the news with Clint. Never any of the big networks, mind you; local stuff. The occasional odd day-time TV show that you never paid that much attention to (Daytime TV: no one cares until _Maury_ is on). The kids talked about the “Young Avengers” or whatever, but, let’s face it - you half-assed listened to hallway conversation.

“That is her, yes.”

“I think I’ve seen her on the news. I can’t believe I didn’t put the two together.” It was so painfully obvious that you wanted to spit. And kick yourself for getting jealous (because let’s be honest now). But there also went your convenient excuse for writing Clint off. Motherdammit. 

“Clint went to her to figure out something to cook for that event. Truthfully, she is the one who made it. If Clint had…” You were positive Natasha made a small shudder. “He was so proud of it. It was quite the big secret for him. But there are no secrets from me,” and opening both of her eyes, she gave you a smile that was knowing and predatory. “Now, show me how to Moonwalker properly. I know you can do it.”

“Girl. You’re killing me. You can’t tell me you, Miss Grace Incarnate, do not know how to Moonwalker.” You were honestly flabbergasted - so much so that any semblance of respect you spoke to her with went right out the window. 

Her smile grew, and she shrugged. “I can Moonwalk, yes, but probably not as good as you. It’ll be like the music video. Michael Jordan and Michael Jackson. You teach me, I teach you,” and she stood up, putting her hands on her hips.

You stared at her, utterly incredulous, before you started laughing. She had to be humoring you. Had to be. But you’d play along with it. Anything to keep the kinship going - and your mind off of the real issue at hand. And, technically, you did owe her for showing you, or at least starting to show you, how to fight. 

“All right,” you sighed, getting to your feet. “It’s really a matter of shifting weight from the heel of your foot to the ball. Walking backwards….”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. Guys. Guys.
> 
> I promise I haven't forgotten this fic. Natasha is notoriously hard to write / my job / working on pieces to try and get published (*sigh*), and just general, "ugghhh" have kept me away. I can't promise more regular updates, but I can honestly say that this story has a resolution plotted out - it just needs to be written. I think the super long chapters / parts don't help, either. The part with Clint was a doozy, amiright?!
> 
> ...Also, I cannot Moonwalk. But I can do the Thriller dance. Or a good part of it, at least.


End file.
